Tag: short story

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What else was I doing, while all of this was going on?  Going through the house itself, looking for clues. I had checked the attic first, but had not found the de rigeur battered old sea-chest filled with a cryptic set of journals that would reveal the Horrible Truth about the house, just slightly too late.  I was grateful for this, as it would have been humiliating to find out that I was embedded in any sort of cliche, let alone a terminal one.

But there was one thing that I did finally notice about the decor: there was a remarkable amount of bird-themed art and decoration scattered about the house.  At first I assumed that it was simply the eccentric whim of whoever it was that decorated the house, but when I mentioned it to my newly dear old friend Wayne at our now-weekly lunches he laughed and shook his head.  “I’ve never received any instructions about the decorations there at all,” Wayne said. “I truly don’t think that the owner cares, either. Any art you’ll see there was left behind by a former tenant.”

Continue reading The House, Part 16/x.

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After about a week or so, things seemed to slow down.  The house would take about five mice every three days, more or less regularly; I did have to keep the live cricket aquarium refilled daily, though.  The nice thing about that was, I noticed very quickly that it did not matter if a cricket got loose; loose ones would disappear almost immediately. I thought about getting a snake or something else that actually did eat crickets as cover for my daily purchases, except that I was unsure that it would last for very long, and snakes can be expensive.

So. I was apparently feeding a house.  My original worries that I was building up its appetite seemed more and more unreasonable; I suspected that what I was doing instead was sating its appetite, possibly for the first time in years.  I imagined that being locked in place and having to wait for its meals to wander by was not the best evolutionary strategy, but it was what the house had here and now.  I also noted the continuing lack of insect life in the area, and concluded that the house continued to consume such things out of habit.

I tested this, actually.  A frozen dead mouse stayed around until it started to smell; but frozen crickets would go almost as quickly as live ones did. Perhaps the house merely likes the crunch.

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The first few days, the animals disappeared quickly, always when I was not actually looking at them.  But the sixteenth mouse did not vanish immediately; it managed to stay in its cage for a good six hours before the inevitable happened.  The seventeenth through twentieth mice had about the same longevity; starting with the twenty-first and twenty-second ones, I acquired a webcam and another cage in order to film one mouse while the other one was left out as a, well, offering.  

The mouse being viewed lasted for a full two days, even when there were no other mice available.  This relieved me a bit, because it implied that whatever was going on in the house could possibly be defended against, if necessary.  Not that there were any indications that something in the house would eat people, but then again I was feeding it regularly.  It would be highly ironic if I was feeding up something that might want to snack on me, eventually.

Speaking of which: once I was reasonably certain that the webcam defense would work I turned it off.  It had been two days, and whatever it was in the house that was feeding on the mice probably felt at least a little peckish at that point.  I am not a monster.

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So much for my mid-morning to early afternoon.  Although it was probably for the best; I felt more relaxed and perceptive, afterward.  I do not shun the company of other people, understand. I do not dislike them, either (this is common enough misapprehension of my behavior that I can only assume that I give off that impression).  But maintaining relationships is difficult for me. I’m not a sociopath, though admittedly I know this mostly because I keep my promises and do not blame other people for my own failings. I am simply capable of great detachment.

Which is why I promptly went to a local pet supply store, once Betty finally left. I did not know whether or not the house really attracted small animals, presumably terminally.  But if the house did, it would be simple enough to test for.

No cats, birds, or dogs, though.  People care about those. They do care about white mice, too — but only the ones that are not sold as snake food.  So I acquired one of those. Oh, and a small supply of food, litter, a cage; assuming that the experiment didn’t work, I would have a live mouse to deal with, at least until I finally let it loose in the yard myself, and I do not find cruelty interesting.

Not that it mattered.

I knew I forgot to do something yesterday: to wit, put this up.

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“But where do they go?” I asked.  Betty gave me a look; it took me a moment to realize that this was also meant to be a response.  “I think that I would have noticed a pack of dogs around the house!” I said.

Betty poured herself a cup of coffee.  “I didn’t say that it was you doing it.  Just that everytime anybody did see a lost pet, they always saw it last around where you’re living now.  And not just cats and dogs, either. At least one person, maybe twenty years ago, moved here and he brought a parrot with him.  I remember seeing it in the cage, being carried up the sidewalk to the house, and I said to myself Man, that’s a shame.  It was a pretty bird.  And a week later, it was gone.”  Betty shook her head. “Must of gotten the cage door open.  That’s what my dad said, at least.”

“And the window? Did the parrot open that, too?” I asked.

“They’re smart birds. Maybe it used its beak.  You ever see any feathers around the place?”

“No,” I said. “Not a one.  You’re welcome to look” — and then I winced, inside, as she brightened a little at that.  Betty looked at the wall clock, gave a half smile, and stood up.

“That’s very friendly of you.  I think I will.”

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“They dislike the area?” I asked.  Animals react differently to the supernatural than people do; or so I have been told, over and over and over again.  It would be mildly annoying to find out that possibly one should pay attention to a cat or dog’s antics, after all. But Betty shook her head a second time.

“It’s not like that,” and she said my first name. I was less happy about it in her mouth than in Wayne’s, but I am good at hiding annoyances.  Besides, she was telling me things I didn’t already know, which is something I like to see in a person. “They always seem to like it fine when they’re here.  But turn your back on a dog in the yard, or leave the door open too long for the cat, and when you turn around, they’re gone. And they never come back. Some families, try three or four times to get a pet before they just give up.” 

Betty leaned back, and made the twitch I knew to associate with an ex-smoker.  Judging from the way she was talking to me, I suspected I would be reasonably grateful for that.  “Me, this was my parents’ house. They sat me down and explained that this was just how things were, around here. Nobody could keep pets, they’d go away.”

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It is difficult to ask a neighborhood if something is out there, and eating their pets. Although I was mildly surprised to find myself on remarkably good terms with my neighbors: I am not at my best when it comes to purely social occasions, but word had apparently gone out that I was wealthy. I was also living in the house, which automatically made me some sort of eccentric recluse in everyone else’s eyes.  I might have been annoyed at that, but at least it meant that any attempts at social interaction on my part would be viewed in the most favorable light. And this is, admittedly, a refreshing change.

So there I was, then, sitting in someone’s actual kitchen, and drinking a cup of mildly inoffensive coffee while I ‘chatted’ with Betty. That is not her real name, either.  One must be polite.

Betty was old enough to be divorced, and her kitchen suggested the presence of teenagers, rather than children.  She was also a happy gossip, up until the moment that I mentioned that I was considering getting a bird of some sort.  Then Betty shook her head, in a way that I found a touch intriguing. “Animals don’t stick around here,” she said.

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It took me a few days to realize the absence of one particular type of noise from outside: birdsong.  I have no objection to birdsong, understand. Obviously, it is merely the monotonous repetition of certain sounds, with no beauty or relevance to humanity save what we impose on it.  But I am not offended that such a thing might exist, and the noises are rarely annoying enough to hinder me from sleeping, or enjoying actual art, or doing anything else, really.  So I felt neither apprehension nor relief in the realization that no birds sang anywhere near the house.

But I did find it interesting.  And, once I paid more attention, I noticed that there were no squirrels near my house, either. No birds, no ‘woodland creatures,’ not even small lizards or frogs.  Which meant that the area should have been literally crawling with bugs, of course; but there was nary a spiderweb or a wasps’ nest to be seen. Even my neighbors did not have ‘bug zappers’ or other grisly amusements on their own properties.

And there was not a single family with a pet who lived within two blocks of the house.  Well, as far as I could tell. I was not about to start looking through windows.

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For one thing, it took me a few days to notice that the doors to the rooms all opened out, not in.  It seems like such a little thing, but the effect was as if everything that came in from outside was steadily drawn down and into the house’s center.  Certainly little items, left unsecured, had a habit of ending up in the living and dining rooms somehow; particularly if they were pretty, or valuable.  After a while, I started leaving my keys on the dining room table (oak, ponderous, might as well have been bolted to the floor), because that’s where they always seemed to end up anyway.

Also: inside the house, I could hear outside noises normally.  But take two steps outside of it, and I couldn’t hear a single sound coming from within.  This effect even worked when the door was open; the sound of the radio (shortwave, stolid 1950s aesthetic) inside faded and disappeared most amazingly as soon as I crossed the threshold.  The results were not conclusive — there was not a clear line of sight from the door to the radio; and the radio was bolted to the wall, presumably because of the antenna — but I found them persuasive.  The house was definitely more than it appeared.

I just didn’t know why.

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Dramatic moments aside, it was two weeks later that I moved in.  As promised, the house came fully furnished — although I made sure to arrange for my own mattress — and it was a good thing that I liked the decor, because the furniture was apparently chosen for weight.  Even the dining room chairs were cumbersome to move, and the bed itself proved virtually impossible to shift. Whoever decorated the house originally clearly was an individual of strong opinions, even if those opinions were not linked to a traditional aesthetic sense. I personally found the whole effect bracing, which was a pleasant surprise.

Continue reading The House, Part 6/x